"Oh—so long as you're amused."
He pushed away the book that had offended him.
They talked—about the Vicar, about Alice, about Rowcliffe's children, about the changes in the Dale, the coming of the Maceys and the going of young Grierson.
"He wasn't a bad chap, Grierson."
He softened, remembering Grierson.
"I can't think why you didn't care about him."
And at the thought of how Gwenda might have cared for Grierson and hadn't cared his youth revived; it came back into his eyes and lit them; it passed into his scowling face and caressed and smoothed it to the perfect look of reminiscent satisfaction. Rowcliffe did not know, neither did she, how his egoism hung upon her passion, how it drew from it food and fire.
He raised his head and squared his shoulders with the unconscious gesture of his male pride.
* * * * *
It was then that she saw for the first time that he wore the black tie and had the black band of mourning on his sleeve.